The Winds of Baker Street
by georgethomas1
Summary: Who's afraid of the big bad wolf? Every fairytale needs a good old fashioned villain. Jim Moriarty, everybody! {Johnlock may be present}
1. Chapter 1

Baker Street at night was generally quiet and all you would be able to hear would be the sounds of the rain sliding off the roof and onto the sidewalk, the steady flow of traffic and the whistling of the winds outside. Unless you were Doctor John Watson, of course.

Sitting in his armchair, flipping through the paper, he tried to ignore the sound of his flatmate Sherlock firing his gun at the wall. He _had_ been an army doctor; he was supposed to be accustomed to this sort of thing but there was just something so alarming about having a gun shot in the house.  
"Sherlock, could you maybe cut it out?" John asked, peering out from his paper. Sherlock flung his gun onto the floor and John instantly lifted his feet, knowing it would go under his chair. "Thank you," he muttered almost bitterly. The intelligent Sherlock covered his face with his hands and murmured,  
"Bored," he did that frequently. It was almost like it was part of the background. "John, find me a case would you?" John shook his head despite Sherlock's request.  
"We agreed, remember? You have to lay low for a while; at least until Mary, Agatha and I can get out of your hair or else people will believe the fake genius thing." It had given everybody quite the scare. Riley, a ginger haired reporter, had exposed Sherlock, claiming he was a fake genius. Naturally, Sherlock took the least dramatic course of action and faked his own death and now that word was out about that, people had begun to talk. John hated what people had to say about Sherlock. They never understood. They always saw him as a freak or as a psychopath but John saw him as something else. He saw him as intelligent, fantastic and one of the greatest men he'd ever met. Without waiting for a reply, John went back to his paper and then his eyes brushed over something intriguing. It was an advertisement for a psychic. The advert read: _Find out who is in your destiny. Who loves you? Is that person right under your nose?_ Without conscious thought, Sherlock flashed across his mind but shaking the thought away, John decided he would put the paper down.  
"Psychics are a complete waste of time, John, I thought you knew that." John shrugged at Sherlock's factual tone he had come to know so well.  
"I just thought it would be interesting," John knew that was a dangerous road to go down. Before John could even try to anticipate Sherlock's reaction, Sherlock laughed amusedly at John's statement.  
"You may think love is a mystery to me, John, but the chemistry is very basic." John couldn't help but squint his eyes. This _was_ Sherlock; the man who had no friends and absolutely no social skills at all.  
"Go on," Sherlock looked at him quizzically and John elaborated slightly, "Prove it." With a swing of his legs, Sherlock sat up on the couch his palms and fingertips pressed together. His focused on John in a way John had never seen before. Feeling slightly self-conscious, John decided he would concentrate on something else like Sherlock's analysis. He stared at Sherlock expectantly, looking into his intense blue eyes. Had they always been that way? So blue, so intense, so… Striking? _No. _John chastised himself. He had to stop with these interjections, these thoughts about Sherlock. He had been having them a lot lately but he was generally good at pushing them back. The man with the sharp cheekbones eyed John with his eyebrows knitting together in almost… Confusion. "Come on then, Sherlock." Instead of talking, however, Sherlock gestured for John to sit on the couch beside him. Acquiescing, John nervously wiped his hands on his jeans. He didn't understand why he felt so jittery all of a sudden.  
"John," Sherlock whispered his voice so deep and smooth that it sent shivers down John's spine. Sherlock took his hand, sending goose-bumps up his arms underneath his jacket. John knew Sherlock was taking his pulse and tried to relax his breathing, make his heart rate climb back down, but that didn't happen. With a quizzical look, Sherlock inched closer to John and held his gaze for a moment, before caressing the hand he held. When Sherlock raised his eyebrow, John knew he had noticed something and John couldn't help but bite his lip and try to break free from Sherlock's gaze. He couldn't let Sherlock know what he had been feeling, what he had been thinking these last few weeks. It would ruin their friendship – or whatever we have going, since Sherlock doesn't have friends, John thought to himself with a bitter resentment growing towards Sherlock's not-so-charming older brother Mycroft.  
"John, what…?" Sherlock began too stunned for words it seemed. Shaking his head frantically, John tried to clear it. "What's the matter?" Sherlock had withdrawn his hand by this time but John still felt the lingering burn of the flames it shot through him.  
"Nothing, Sherlock, I'm fine."  
"Clearly, you are not fine, John Watson. Your eyes have been closed for at least four seconds, indicating you are trying to calm yourself down, your posture has changed and you have grown fatigued from intense emotion from the way you are holding your head. Now, what is the matter?"  
"I… Sherlock, I've been thinking a lot lately about… Sherlock, I need to tell you something and I need you to promise not to…" John didn't see the point in trying to get Sherlock to be calm about this. He was always calm – except for when he was bored or afraid; then, he was just angry.  
"What is it, John?" When it came down to it, however, words failed John.  
"Nothing, Sherlock. Goodnight."


	2. Chapter 2

John couldn't sleep that night and awoke with a start from his unsettling dream. Wrapping his robe around him, John flipped on the telly, not wanting to watch anything in particular. As he sat and waited for the kettle to boil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock sleeping on the couch. He must have been up much later than he was. For a split second, John wondered what it was that kept him awake and then he made himself a nice cup of tea…  
"I hope you've made enough for two, John." Sherlock's deep voice made John jump a little. Just a moment ago, he had been sleeping.  
"But you don't drink tea in the mornings; not when it's… Hot." John told him but Sherlock just shrugged.  
"Well, this morning I do. Problem?" John shook his head and poured a second cup of tea, murmuring something like, 'no, not at all'. The two sat down and drank their tea, John in a blur and Sherlock, vigilant as ever. Something gave John the feeling that today was going to be a dangerous one. His mind was overtaken by a small sense of fear yet also a sense of excitement. What had Sherlock done to him? Or rather, what was Sherlock doing to him? Glancing over at the mess he'd made, he'd realised they were coming to an empty bottle of milk. Maybe getting the groceries would help to settle the unease that had begun to take root in John's stomach.

Today, the sky was beginning to clear. The streets were crowded with people as they hurried to their jobs with their instant coffees in-hand, wind jackets on and ear hats to protect them from the sharp wind that somehow prevailed. John envied them for a moment. They had such normal lives; they had normal families, jobs and normal... _Desires?_ A small voice in John's head quipped. Shaking it away, John thought about what it would be like to lead a normal life. It would be boring, he realised, with one person in particular coming to mind. Waving down a cab, John stepped in a small puddle and grimaced. The grocer would be packed.  
When he got there, his deduction had been correct. Half of England could have been at the grocer that day, as John struggled to walk in.  
After a number of "Excuse me"s and apologies, John bought what he had come for and so came the waiting in the queue.  
That's the most tedious part, Sherlock had told him one day when John tried to ask why he didn't go to the grocer. They all stand in lines with their trivial items and some of them even try to make conversation while trying to distract themselves from their utterly boring lives. What really gets me about grocers, John, he had said, is that the people don't think. John had retorted with, 'do I think, Sherlock?' The man with the dark, curly hair had shaken his head and had murmured something inaudible but John had heard, 'You're different to them, John.' When John had opted for him to elaborate, he'd gone back to looking for his cigarettes.  
"...John?" A familiar voice entered his orbit and John looked up to see the aging face of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. "Oh, so there is someone home."  
"Sorry, Greg, how are you?" Lestrade shrugged his shoulders in response.  
"I actually have a question or two... Is Sherlock really back in...?"  
"Shhh!" John hushed him. John had already said too much, he knew, but this was Greg Lestrade. He was, despite Sherlock's claims, one of Sherlock's only friends.  
"That other question…" Lestrade trailed off as it was his turn to be served. By the way Lestrade was speaking, it was probably a case that desperately needed solving. John waited and tried to busy himself with the magazines near the counter so he wouldn't feel that nagging sensation, that thirst for danger that he often had to fight down now that he and Mary had a daughter. Agatha was only a few months old now and Mary had been insistent that they raise her as normally as they could until she was old enough to grasp the concept that her father was an adrenaline junkie who had to go out with her uncle Sherlock to get a fix. It wasn't something John was proud of but a few months before Agatha was born, it was something he had to face up to. He'd initially thought it was to do with the war but then realised that it wasn't. He didn't miss the shooting and not knowing if he would be alive the next day. He liked the lifestyle Sherlock provided him with before he'd moved in with Mary; intellectual with a touch of danger. Despite his attempts to busy himself, no matter what happened, his mind was on a constant loop of Sherlock, Mary and baby Agatha.

When John returned home to Baker Street, he went upstairs to see Mary leaving the flat in her red coat about to descend.

"What if it cries?" John heard Sherlock ask almost frantically.

"John's home now; you don't need to worry." She laughed. Muttering something inaudible, Sherlock sounded reluctant. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm sure you'd be a great mother." With that, Mary closed the door and walked down the stairs, giving John a quick peck on the cheek. "Make sure he doesn't show our daughter dead bodies to calm her down." John laughed lightly.

"I'll do my best." No promises, he added darkly in his head as he brought the milk upstairs.

Before he opened the door, he heard the piercing squeal of his young daughter fill the room and Sherlock pacing, muttering to himself - wondering aloud about what he should do.

"John, where are you?" Suddenly, John couldn't hear Sherlock pacing anymore. Instead, Bach's Sonata No. 1 began to fill his ears. His best friend was doing his equivalent of singing a lullaby. Not wanting to interrupt, John slowly turned the handle and walked in with the milk.

The moment John set foot in Sherlock's strangely clean flat, Sherlock stopped creating his beautiful music and turned to John.

"Oh, good! You're back; can you grab my phone? It's in your room where it sleeps."

"Back to this, are we? And Sherlock, my daughter is not an 'it'!"

"Of course she is. No human is capable of making such an irritating sound."

"Well, you're not exactly the most human person yourself," John told him after quietly checking on Agatha and getting Sherlock's phone. He had received a text message from a blocked number.

"Once upon a time there was a woman in red..." That was all it said. Handing the phone to Sherlock, he sat down to watch as Sherlock's brilliant mind began to unravel the cryptic web of words.

"He's back, John..." He whispered so quietly that John nearly missed it. "The game is on."


	3. Chapter 3

John wasn't sure he wanted to play the game. He couldn't; not while Agatha and Mary were in danger. He knew Mary would be able to handle it – even more so than him, in fact – but Agatha… That small bundle, that light of his life, was only a few weeks old and if she was ever exposed to Moriarty… He shook the thought away. It made him sick to think about it.  
"Sherlock," John began as Sherlock sat in his pensive and ponderous position, "You're going to have to be alone on this case." Sherlock's head instantly jerked over to his friend.  
"You've been getting nightmares again, John; you've often screamed out my name in your sleep as you thrash about." John was surprised. He did not remember doing that at all. "You woke up early this morning not because you're generally an early riser but because you had an unsettling dream about the war and I noticed that as you went to get your tea this morning, I could see the slightest trace of your psychosomatic limp and the tremor in your left hand." Sherlock took John's hand in his. John stared into his changing eyes and tried to read his expression but it was too much of a mystery to him.  
"Sherlock, I have Agatha and Mary to think about; I can't just… Abandon them to go on a case with you!" John withdrew his hand and got to his feet with blind fury and then he saw a twinkle in Sherlock's eye as his lips began to part in a smug smile that John had once described to him as one of the most condescending smirks he had ever seen in his life.  
"Oh and John, this case is most likely going to be the most dangerous case we have ever encountered." That did it. John felt his overwhelming desire to go back into the battlefield – to feel the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins; the two of them against the rest of the world – seeping through his veins and filling his entire being. Suddenly, he had forgotten all about Mary and all about Agatha. The only thing that mattered to him was that he solved this case… No. He had to shake that thought away. He had a family – priorities – now. He had to think about the consequences; he had to put them first if he wanted to hold onto the one thing that he thought he wanted.  
"Is he even worse than Cam?" John found himself asking, kicking himself almost instantly. Sherlock's lips twitched as he tried not to let his smugness show.  
"Do you remember how I said Charles Augustus Magnussen was a shark?" John nodded, "James Moriarty… He needs no provocation. Now, Doctor Watson, will you take the case?" Despite everything, John found himself nodding profusely.  
"I'll take the case."

Finding Moriarty was going to be the hardest part. Sherlock and John had known from past experience that Moriarty was a giant spider. Sherlock had told everybody who would listen at a rigged criminal trial that Moriarty was a spider at the centre of a web – this time, the web was in an unknown location and the threads, he knew, would have the people he cared about, as the threads that would be his undoing and deep down, that was what worried him the most about this case; that Sherlock would come undone. On the surface, however, John worried immediately for his family. What would happen to Mary? What would happen to Agatha if he took this case? He wasn't sure but the first thing he had to do was tell Mary. He wasn't sure how he would present this predicament to her and that would be interesting. If necessary, Sherlock would have to talk her around and John always hated when he could do that and John couldn't.

As John and Sherlock began to get immersed in decoding Moriarty's cryptic message, Agatha began to cry. John didn't get up from his chair. He thought he'd let her cry for a moment. Sherlock gave John a quizzical look but John didn't seem to notice. Sherlock had told him once, 'you see but you do not observe.' Nothing had ever rung more true for John in Sherlock's mind. It had been one of the truest, most accurate deductions he had ever made about John Watson and that man did not understand why even through everything that had happened between them. Agatha's cries grew fainter as five minutes passed.

John felt a wave of relief wash over him and he looked to Sherlock, preparing to say something along the lines of 'see? She's fine', but Sherlock had disappeared. Bolting up, John rushed into his daughter's room – or he tried to. Sherlock stood in the doorway his hands touching both sides of the doorframe.  
"John," He began, staring intently into John's eyes, "Go back to your chair right now."  
"Sherlock let me see my daughter," John told him sternly grabbing Sherlock's arm and twisting it behind his back before he manoeuvred into his, Mary's and Agatha's room and moved Sherlock across so they were both in the room.  
"John," Sherlock's voice was even despite him being slammed against a wall by his best friend. "Moriarty has your daughter."


End file.
